


Pitch and Timbre

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ... Brief mention of Lestrade, But they still know how to surprise each other, Credit to Ashlee1989 for the main title, Each chapter is stand-alone but related, Hello 2018, I am 100 percent commited to this being real, I wrote this instead of real world responsibilities, John's chair has seen some filthy things I'm sure, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Not first time. They are already boning before this happens, These two idiots never really talk but they say a lot in other ways, This is not edited well or really edited at all, This was of course a tumblr prompt somewhere but I don't have the prompt, Tumblr Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 07:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13290066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: pitch [pɪtʃ]noun: pitch; plural noun: pitches - the quality of a sound governed by the rate of vibrations producing it; the degree of highness or lowness of a tone."her voice rose steadily in pitch"timbre [ˈtambə]noun: timbre; plural noun: timbres - the character or quality of a musical sound or voice as distinct from its pitch and intensity."trumpet mutes with different timbres"John had always known that Sherlock’s voice would be his undoing. And he wasn’t thinking that Sherlock’s penchant for insulting explanations or goading slurs would get him killed. Though that was a distinct possibility. He was thinking about the voice. The voice. That Voice. Sure there were a great many things to admire, to covet, to worship and John was certain he did. But that voice...





	Pitch and Timbre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HollyShadow88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyShadow88/gifts).



> If I knew where I'd read the conversation about this prompt, I would 100% include it. However... I cannot remember and cannot find it, but you all know the one I'm talking about...

John had always known that Sherlock’s voice would be his undoing. And he wasn’t thinking that Sherlock’s penchant for insulting explanations or goading slurs would get him killed. Though that was a distinct possibility. He was thinking about the voice. The voice. _That Voice._ Sure there were a great many things to admire, to covet, to worship and John was certain he did. But that voice. When people wrote of silver-tonged devils, this was their model. Low enough that it whispered across his skin, drawing designs in it’s wake a sure as fingertips. Smooth enough that it shivered down his spine, silken and soft. Deep enough that it vibrated through the marrow of his bones. Pornographic. As were the thoughts that always seemed to follow.

What John was never sure of, was whether or not Sherlock was aware of it.

Of course, Sherlock used his voice, the pitch and timbre, to cajole and intimidate, coax and threaten, bide and bid for information, time, and truth. There were times when it was a sham, and times when it was honest. And there were times, John would swear up and down, that Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing to him. Did it on purpose. And for his own entertainment at that.

Then again. Even in a strop and bitterly insulting, Sherlock’s voice still seemed to cut to the bone. Giving rise, figuratively… Literally… Both. To some of John’s more colorful fantasies. A simple exclamation. Oh. Oooh. Oh! OH! Oh? Oh…

And Christ have mercy, John was gone on him.

“John, you’re not listening to me. If you’re going to be so insensate, I might as well fetch back my skull and carry on with him instead.”

John sighed and rubbed the spot in the middle of his forehead that seemed to be pounding incessantly. “I am listening.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“But you have spent the past twenty minutes talking nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense. If you’d just listen-”

“Sherlock, I’ve only just come home from a very long day at work. So if you have no intention of explaining who or what you’ve been ranting about, I might as well just turn in.”

“So you haven’t been listening.”

“Sherlock-“

“No, if you weren’t here, you haven’t been listening.”

John groaned and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He should have been suspicious of the ensuing silence. Should have. Clearly he was tired. Or distracted. Or off with the faeries. Because the sudden, low purr at his ear shouldn’t have been a surprise.

“John. We have work to do.”

The thunk of his jacket in his lap hid the sharp intake of breath. Hid or excused. Allowed. John startled upright, twisting to glare, to cover the flush in his cheeks. “Work?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed as he grinned. “Work,” he repeated.

~

It was bad. It was utterly stupid, completely unplanned, and very, very bad. It was nearly as bad as the time John thought it would be a good idea to go to the opera and let Sherlock translate the Italian. And for two and a half hours, Sherlock murmured a story in John’s ear, in the dim theatre box, as John came infinitesimally closer to permanently ruining his tuxedo trousers.

“Shhh.”

Never mind; this was worse. John huffed his displeasure against Sherlock’s gloved hand as he tried to glare a hole into the side of man’s jaw.

“I’ll take my hand away if you promise to be quiet.”

John raised a brow pointedly, catching Sherlock’s sideways glance with an angered stare.

“Well, you were thinking loudly,” Sherlock hummed into John’s ear.

John frowned viciously until his mouth was freed from the leather. He clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply. He hoped the level of his ire was visible in spite of the near pitch dark of the press. A press, which, on a good day, could probably fit him, on his own and no more. Somehow, they were both behind the barely cracked door. But fitting had involved some creative and rushed human Tetris; the result of which was a solid wall pressing at his shoulders, a gun digging into the small of his back, and Sherlock pressed firmly along his front. God, if they both took a breath in at the same time, one of them wouldn’t get enough air. At least John was against the wall; it beat the hell out of having his back wedged against the immersion. It was roasting in there. Boiling, even. How on Earth Sherlock had thought this was a good idea…

“Shhh,” Sherlock hissed, his breath stirring the hair at John’s temple.

John bit his lip to keep from snapping back at him. Prick. If he could have turned his head without brushing his nose along Sherlock’s neck, he might have tried to peer out the crack in the door. But given the narrow space, the movement would only have stuck his face in Sherlock’s armpit, and that was definitely not what he wanted. No. Instead, he would just stand there, spine straight, palms flat against the wall by his sides, and try to take up as little space as possible.

“Do be quiet.”

And be quiet.

“I think they’re in the room.”

A single sliver of light slashed across Sherlock’s face. They were definitely in the room. He inched his hand towards the gun. He may not have the space to draw in here, but he could be ready. When a figure passed in front of the door, blotting out the light, John froze.

Sherlock held his breath until the figure moved on, flinching slightly as the light returned. “It’s Russian,” Sherlock murmured. “Interesting.”

John bit back a sigh. It certainly wasn’t interesting. It was infuriating. And absurd. And they were stuck in the press; bloody hot press. Maybe that’s where the damn word came from, ‘Press.’ Because if you stick two people in there, they’d be pressed together. And God did his libido have something to contribute to that line of thinking.

“If you’d stop thinking so loudly,” Sherlock hummed. “I’ll tell you what they’re saying.”

John let out a small puff of air in irritation. The whole press smelled like Sherlock. “I’d rather you not make a sound right now.” His other head gave a throb at the thought of Sherlock disregarding everything he said.

Sherlock ignored him. “The fat one is telling the short one that the warehouse with the…” Sherlock made an inquisitive sound. “Loot? Is one of three.”

“Sherlock,” John grumbled.

“Shh. He’s telling him when to pick it up.” Sherlock kept up a low narrative of the conversation as it droned on. John shifted uncomfortably. He watched a slow trickle of sweat trace its way down Sherlock’s neck and had to shift again. “I know it’s warm, John. But I would be much obliged if you would hold still.”

“I bet you would,” he tried get his hand on grip of the gun, but he couldn’t without arching his back and that was a terrible, terrible idea.

“They’re planning on…”

John managed to worm his fingers along the small of his back. Damn he was sweating through his shirt. They were as likely to melt in here as be caught. His right shoulder gave a small twinge from being twisted so far behind his back in such a narrow space. This was getting uncomfortable. More uncomfortable? Unbearable.

“They’re going to move the entire stock pile tonight,” Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing John’s ear. The footfalls in the room receded. “They’re leaving.”

One of the muscles in his right thigh twitched. Twitched and cramped. Shit. His knee started to shake. If his knee gave, they’d fall. His arm was up behind his back, his other hand had nothing but bare wall to grab.

“John.”

He grit his teeth and tried to shift his weight, just a little. Twitch, cramp, spasm.

The immersion at Sherlock’s back gave a loud clang.

John felt his knee fold.

“What was that?”

“Where’d that come from?”

“Who’s there?!”

Sherlock’s hand clamped over John’s mouth again as he pressed his weight forward. John bit back a groan. His leg gave a sharp throb even as Sherlock’s thigh slid between his and the man’s weight sank further down around him. In the back of his mind, John knew it was for good reason: Sherlock’s coat was dark, his hair was dark, his scarf was dark. And in the shadow of the press, it would stand out far less than John’s hair, or skin, so when he turned his face away from the door and into the crown of John’s head, it was purely to better hide. It was not to torment him. It wasn’t.

“Shhh,” Sherlock breathed into John’s hair.

John wrapped his palm around the handle of the gun and pressed his eyes closed, straining his ears. Listening to the footfalls and creaks of the room outside. He eased the pistol free of his jeans, raised it towards the door, and listened harder.

The immersion clanged again and the pipes rattled, a hiss and groan tracking from the press out along the pipes in the room.

“It’s just the water pipes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure. We have work to do.”

When the light flicked off and the far door snapped shut, John sagged in relief, letting his hand drop to his side. “Christ.”

Sherlock hummed and eased the door open, sliding along John’s front and out into the room. “Well, that was interesting.”

~

John felt like he was fighting gravity. Getting out of the taxi, climbing the stairs, lifting his arms to hang his coat. He braced a hand against the wall and let his forehead rest against it for a moment.

“Have a shower; you’ll feel batter.”

He shuddered as Sherlock slipped his coat onto the neighboring peg. “I’m done in,” he shook his head slowly and pushed off the wall, narrowly avoiding stumbling back into Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled. “You are not going to bed so sweaty and covered in soot.”

John snorted. “And you’re in any better shape?”

“I can still stand upright,” Sherlock grinned.

He had a point. John grumbled and staggered toward the loo. “Fine. But you shower too.” He didn’t wait for a response, though he was damn sure he’d gotten one. He also didn’t bother to check the time until he’d finished scrubbing off the sweat and grime and had changed into soft, flannel pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. And by then, it was past three. Well past time for sleep. And yet, Sherlock was pacing the sitting room, and John could hardly leave him there on his own. “Shower’s free.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed absently as John dropped into his chair.

“Did you want to shower? You’re the one going on about being covered with sweat and soot.”

“Interesting.”

“What?” John blinked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock cocked a brow rather than repeat himself.

“That was interesting to you?” John’s brow furrowed. “Stuffing ourselves in a hot press for an hour then watching a Met team sit around outside a warehouse for the night? How is that at all interesting?”

“No,” Sherlock murmured, continuing his pacing.

“No what?” John sighed and sat forward, resting his forehead in his palm. It was probably a mistake. Now that he’d closed his eyes, he wasn’t likely to open them again soon. “What was interesting then?”

“You.”

John jumped. “Jesus, Sherlock!” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched briefly into a smile as he rounded John’s chair and sat primly on his own. Now that he looked, their chairs seemed closer together than usual. John rubbed absently at the back of neck, the ghost of Sherlock’s breath leaving gooseflesh in its wake. “What about me?”

Sherlock hummed again and gave John a long, lingering look. “I have been thinking.”

“God help us.”

“Oh, I suspect God has nothing to do with it.”

“Right, fine. What have you been thinking about?”

“I told you,” Sherlock tilted his head. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Anything in particular? Did I have something fascinating for lunch that I can’t remember?”

“I have searched my memory high and low for the possible cause of it. Frankly, I have come up rather empty.”

“It?”

A Cheshire grin spread across Sherlock’s face. “You rather enjoyed yourself tonight.”

John couldn’t keep from flushing. Dammit. As if Sherlock could ever have failed to notice something.

Sherlock leaned forward. “We have participated in any number of so called stakeouts and questionable entries. We have spent many hours in close proximity. You have subjected yourself to a physiotherapy session in an overly heated room. And certainly, you’ve handled a firearm without ever enjoying yourself quite as much as you did earlier this evening.”

John cleared his throat and pulled back into his chair, trying to put a bit more distance between them. “What does my physio have to do with it?”

“Intentional physical contact in a warm space, do keep up. So then, what was it tonight? Hm?” Sherlock slid forward on his seat, bracing an elbow on his knee to stay well close to John. “Was it the combination of things? The heat, the risk of getting caught? I would have known if you were an exhibitionist.”

“No,” John shook his head. “God no. Please. And before you even go there, guns are not a turn on.”

“Not for you, no.”

John sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “You are… An absolute prat sometimes.”

“And you won’t answer my question. I’ve rarely known you to be effectively evasive.”

“As far as I can tell, you haven’t asked a question.” He crossed his arms.

“Oh? An oversight on my part. I wrongly assumed you were capable of understanding subtext.” Sherlock snapped forward, planting his hands on the arms of John’s chair. “What was it, specifically, that excited you?”

“I…” He shuffled against the back of his chair. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the answer. He knew. Just, perhaps, he didn’t want Sherlock to know. He felt his cheeks color again.

“Come now, John,” Sherlock set a knee on the cushion of John’s chair. “I know you like adrenaline, but that would be extreme.” He brought his other knee up, his hands moving to the chair back, caging John in. “We touch all the time. Have sex with alarming frequency.” He studied John’s face, which was growing redder by the second. “Hmmm?”

“I…”

“Speak up, John.” He dipped his head, his lips skimming John’s ear. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

John gave Sherlock’s hips a squeeze. “Course I bloody know.”

“Oh?” Sherlock nosed along John’s jaw. “Do tell.”

“You tell me.”

Sherlock hummed against John’s neck. “You don’t tend to be tight-lipped about what you like.”

John’s huff caught in his throat as teeth grazed his adam’s apple. “What you’re doing right now is good.”

“Of course it is.”

Fuck, there were fingers in his hair, nails scraping his scalp, lips on his neck. “I like you,” he breathed.

“Mmn, that,” Sherlock rocked his hips forward. “Is apparent.”

“Sherlock…”

“No, no,” he pressed his palm over John’s mouth. “You asked me to tell you.”

John snorted, his words muffled against Sherlock’s skin.

“Oh, I do think I know.” He let his forehead rest against John’s. “It wasn’t just the heat, though that was likely contributory. If it were the heat alone, I would have greatly enjoyed knowing you during your deployment. But no, not just heat. Similarly, it wasn’t proximity. Were it proximity, you’d have difficulty working as a physician. More to the point, it was _my_ proximity, was it not?”

John’s affirmative sound came out as a grunt as Sherlock’s free hand began a slow wander down his chest.

“Though, were it _just_ my proximity, work, our work, would be greatly impaired on a daily basis. So not just heat, not just proximity. And what do we have left?” Sherlock traced John’s erection with quick, teasing fingers, and John groaned. “You’re hard now. Again. So which factor have I neglected?” He pulled back just far enough to see John’s face, to watch, to examine his expressions. “Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes lit with the excitement of discovery. “You did tell me. ‘ _You tell me’_.”

John felt the tips of his ears turn crimson.

“My voice, is it?”

John nodded slowly, unsure if he was more excited, turned-on, or terrified of what Sherlock would do with the knowledge.

“Interesting.” He pulled his hands away and considered. “Close your eyes. Hands on the arms of the chair.”

“Sherlock…”

“Please?” Sherlock’s smirk was self-assured, not at all a plea. “Close your eyes.”

John swallowed and complied.

“Hmm.”

It was a considering hum. And it was directly next to his ear. John shuddered.

“My, Grandmother, what big ears you have.” A sharp nip at his earlobe had John grunting. “All the better to hear you with, my dear,” Sherlock finished, his breath moving across John’s skin like a caress. “I wonder, John, what I should do with this information? What I should do with you? Do you think you could come from my voice alone?”

John bit his lip. It was a possibility. He probably could. Then his name vibrated in his chest as Sherlock dropped his voice to the low rumble he’d perfected and John groaned. He could. It wasn’t a possibility; it was a surety. Inevitable.

“So you could, John.” He slipped his hand beneath the hem of John’s pajamas, wrapping his fingers around John’s cock with familiarity. John’s mouth dropped open with a gasp. “And that’s why you stay so quiet. Not a buttoned-up conservatism. But a hedonistic desire to listen. To hear. And what is it you like to hear the most, John? Praise? You practically glow with the sparse public compliments I pay you.”

John whimpered as Sherlock’s hand moved slowly but firmly. Up and down with the rhythm of his words.

“No, not that.” Sherlock’s voice dropped off as he paused to suck a lovebite over John’s collarbone. “Mmn, beautiful. Not praise. Is it vulgarity? The odd curse word or expletive? Shite? Cock? Fuck?”

“God, please,” John whined, trying to speed the stroke of Sherlock’s hand by thrusting up into it.

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock purred, pinning John’s hips back into the chair before resuming his achingly slow pace. “It’s not that either. Though you are quite the fan of profanity, that isn’t it either, is it?”

John shook his head restlessly against the back of the chair, his fingers digging into the worn fabric of the armrests. “No. Sherlock. Please.”

“Oh. Oooooh,” Sherlock licked a slow stripe up the underside of John’s jaw. “I see. I see now. You do always tell me, don’t you?” His cheek slid against John’s, stopping only to put his lips to John’s ear. “John.”

His chest heaved with a breathless moan. “Oh God.”

“John.” Sherlock’s fist tightened. “John,” he purred. “John, Jawn, _Jaaaaawn_.”

“Ffff,” John bit down on hi slip hard. “Fuck. Sherlock.”

“Mmmn, I love being right, John.” He started stroking in earnest. “Don’t you, John?”

John’s cry was closer to a sob. “Yes.”

“John?”

He panted.

“John,” Sherlock breathed into his skin. “Come now, John.”

He did. Christ did he come. Hard.

Sherlock molded himself along John’s front, stroking bits of him – arms, chest, neck, hair – as he struggled to catch his breath. “I may need to reconsider the way I speak to you in public.”

John, having recovered a small bit of sense, managed to catch Sherlock’s face between his palms and snogged him to the best of his ability. “You tosser.”

Sherlock flushed. “No wonder you follow directions so well.”

John gaped at him until he noticed the mischievous twist of Sherlock’s mouth. And he promptly burst into giggles. Sherlock’s laughter mixed quickly with his as they relaxed in the cramped space the chair provided. “You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

“You first.”


End file.
